


The Queen of the Lonely Mountain

by Glorfindel (Zana), Zana



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Assassination, Courtesans, F/M, Intrigue, M/M, Politics, Spies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2019-11-28 01:51:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18201878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zana/pseuds/Glorfindel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zana/pseuds/Zana
Summary: King Dain is to wed Lady Katris, the eldest daughter of the Firebeard clan.  However, the wedding party is ambushed on the way to the Lonely Mountain.  In a world where everyone has ulterior motives, is there anyone the queen-to-be can count on?A sequel to theLay of Dwalin the Dwarf 'verse, set fifteen years after the Battle of the Five Armies.





	1. Chapter 1

            It was a gray, chilly day. Beneath the Mountain, nobody could see the weather, but still the damp and chill seemed to invade the spirits of everyone in the royal court. The King was waspish and cranky – more cranky than usual, even – and the guards glared fiercely at everyone who entered his audience chamber, making sure that the sharp ends of their pikes and axes shimmered menacingly in the lamplight. The King’s consort had given up trying to distract his royal highness from his foul mood, eventually retreating in disgust. Even Balin, chief councilor to King Dain and Lord Under the Mountain, usually the picture of amiability despite his razor-sharp intelligence and guile, had snapped at a young page.

            It was a month until the equinox, too early for the spring flowers that would be picked six weeks hence for the King’s young bride. Everyone was on edge today, for the wedding party with the beautiful Queen-to-be should have arrived two days before. King Dain was torn between relief – if the daughter of the Firebeard clan chief had managed to get herself killed, he could continue his comfortable affair with his consort, which was pretty much the only thing he liked about being being King – and a sinking feeling in his gut that the political fallout of losing Lady Katris was likely to be immense. After all, ten of Dain’s personal bodyguards had gone to escort the queen-to-be to her kingdom. Firebeard would scream assassination, and Dain’s council would moan about the lost bride price, then force him to start searching anew for a wife – right after he’d alienated all viable contenders by relegating them to second choice.

            Not to mention the loss of half of his bodyguard corps, some of the few men he trusted since he’d taken the throne two decades ago. Almost all had fought in the War under his command, and all were counted among the best warriors in that part of Middle Earth. One of them, Dwalin, was arguably the foremost warrior of all the Dwarves – though he was not of Dain’s army, having been inherited from his cousin King Thorin when the latter died in the War. If Dain didn’t entirely trust Dwalin, he had the sense not to say it out loud and antagonize the still-powerful figures who’d been loyal to Thorin.

            One of these powerful figures was his own courtesan, Dori, officially the Head Chamberlain of his household. Dain had put off all talk of marriage for years, unwilling to give up the most beautiful dwarf to ever grace his bed.

            But Dori, practiced though he might be in the art of giving his client everything he’d ever wanted, had a horribly sensible side to him. When Dain had proposed nearly ten years ago, Dori had explained how impossible it would be. The King must marry a dwarrowdam; the King must have heirs.

            Dain chewed at a hangnail, feeling miserable. Dori had reacted to his lack of grace this morning as he ever had: by ignoring it until Dain stepped over an invisible line in his effort to get a reaction. That reaction, inevitably, was to stomp off in a huff of offended dignity. It happened every time, and Dain hated the pattern, but somehow he couldn’t stop himself from childishly baiting Dori for attention. It would take him hours to get back into Dori’s good graces tonight.

            _If_ the wedding party didn’t show up. The parade that had been organized for two days ago had been dispersed, but it seemed the entirety of the Mountain was still on edge, waiting, waiting…

            It had been an hour since Dori left. Dain came to a decision and rose, looking coldly at the surprised faces of his councilors. “We will retire to await further news,” he said, and limped off with the bodymen in train. No doubt tongues would wag, but it was worth it to hold Dori in his arms one last time…

            A bodyguard preceded him into his rooms; ever since the assassination attempts, privacy was hard to come by. Once searched, though, Dain ordered the dwarf to stay outside. The guard was unhappy about it, but Dain knew this would require a delicate touch.

            All of Dori’s things were long since packed and removed from the King’s chambers. Dori sat on the bed, his shoulders slumped uncharacteristically.

            Dain approached cautiously, unsure what to do. He’d never had to comfort Dori before; usually, that was the courtesan’s job.

            The past two days had been hard on both of them. They had said their goodbyes the night before the Firebeard party was due to arrive, and both nights since they’d clung together, desperate, sure this was the last time. Dori, who’d always been as steadfast and sensible as stone, had actually _cried_ last night. It had eased some of the calcified worry Dain had carried all these years, to see his stoic courtesan so upset. Dori had never showed outwardly that he needed Dain, that the King was ever more than a favored bed companion…

            Now, Dain gathered him close and buried his face in Dori’s hair. He’d always loved the contrast of Dori’s solid bulk: rock-hard muscles and soft rounded belly. Now he felt the fine tremors wracking that solid body, and guilt seeped through him. It was his fault that his beloved was weeping. He hadn’t had to courage to face down his councilors and insist on marrying his true love.

            Mahal, he _hated_ being King sometimes. It was all politics and offending people and having to make nice. Give him a battle and he was in his element, but diplomacy was a war he’d lose every time.

            Dori’s tears seeped through the collar of Dain’s tunic; he could feel them cooling on his neck. He wished he could summon words of comfort, but words had always been his weak spot.

            _If the Firebeard wench **is**_ _dead, I’m going to be brave this time. Let the Council shout. Let **Dori**_ _shout. I’m King, aren’t I?_ He opened his mouth to say so, then closed it again. It would be unkind to Dori to get his hopes up.

            Instead, he caressed Dori’s silver hair and murmured the words Dori had given him after the first assassination attempt. Dori had held him as the rage and adrenaline seeped out of him, whispering, “I’ve got you. We’ll make it. I’ve got you.”

            Even now, he did not dare let slip the perilous _I love you._


	2. Chapter 2

            Dwalin was jolted awake. He instantly knew that something was very, very wrong.

            He did not panic; he had been a warrior for a century and half, and panic had been trained out of him early.

            He began making a mental inventory. His left leg hurt like a Balrog – broken, no doubt. One of the mercenary Men had had an iron war hammer, Dwarf-made by the look of it, and must have caught him from behind. Embarrassing; the legends about him said he could fight twenty Men at a time, and he’d gone down when outnumbered only five to one.

            A cut on his left arm stung, but would not hold him back like the leg would. The cracked rib would mend, as would the various bruises he could feel all over. The mercs had been well-trained. Dwalin should know; he’d been a mercenary for large parts of his life.

            The leg was bad, but that wasn’t what was so wrong. His brain was working slowly, he realized; he must have a concussion. And there was something else…

            He reached for weapons, only to realize that his hands were tied behind his back. They scrabbled at cloth, and it was only then that he realized the thing his panicked brain had been trying to hide from him: he couldn’t see.

            Terror ripped through him, and was just as quickly wrestled to the ground.

            _Breathe_ , he told himself sternly. _Think._

            Part of his mind was still gibbering. Dwalin hated being immobilized more than anything else in the world. However, he told that part to _shut up, thank you,_ and pushed it into a corner.

            _Alright. **Think**. What do we know?_

He seemed to be on stable ground, or perhaps on a flat floor. He couldn’t tell if he had been jailed, for the bag over his head smelled strongly of oats and muted what he could hear. Which was… nothing. There was nothing nearby save for… hmm… yes, that was definitely the sound of water, muffled through the cloth. Could it be that he’d been left by the river where they’d battled?

            Left for dead, perhaps?

            Worse, left alive to carry the tale? _That_ would be humiliating. Left to tell the King that he’d failed the…

            The queen-to-be.

            _Damnation._

            The ambushers must have taken her. The attack could not have been by chance. A valuable political prisoner, worth a king’s ransom… Surely they would not kill her?

            He had to get out of these ropes.

            Coming to a decision, he risked rolling over. When that did not bring the wrath of the ambushers down upon him, he rolled again, and again, scrabbling with his bound hands to find something he could use to break free of the ropes. The gibbering part of his mind got closer to breaking out than he wanted to admit, but he stubbornly refused to listen to it. He had a job to do, a king to inform of his bride’s death or kidnapping, and a husband who would be worried sick when the Firebeard party did not arrive on time.

            On the fourth roll, he smacked into something large and soft that went, “Oof!”

            Dwalin froze, afraid he’d woken a sleeping enemy. Too late; he could hear the person speaking, but it was like hearing from deep underwater. “I can’t hear you!” he tried to say, only to find his mouth full of fabric.

            The form, whoever it was, wriggled. Dwalin’s fingers felt more burlap sacking. Another captive? His guess was confirmed when the prisoner’s fingers found his, tugging at the knots securing his wrists. Ah – this fellow had his wits about him! They could untie each others’ knots.

            For the next half hour, the two of them tried desperately to get purchase on the tightly-knotted twine, their fingers slick with sweat. Dwalin could think of no worse torture than this: to be inches from freedom, and unable to help himself or his new friend.

            Then everything unraveled when a door banged open, and there was a shout. Feet pounded across the floor toward them, and Dwalin was hurled away from the other prisoner. A blow rocked him back and set the broken leg to throbbing again.

            “Cover their hands,” he heard the Man say to another who must have entered at the same time. “The little bastards could have gotten away!”

            “Put them in separate rooms from now on,” another voice said, deeper and more authoritative. “They’re wily buggers, those Dwarves. They shouldn’t have been left alone.”

            _No_ , Dwalin agreed, _we shouldn’t have been._ He hoped it wasn’t the last time their attackers slipped up. Dwalin owed them some major payback, and he was ready to deal it out just as soon as he figured out how to get his hands free.


	3. Chapter 3

            Nori was furious.  He was the King’s spymaster, by Durin!  It was his job to know what was going on, anywhere in Dain’s realm.  Moreover, it was his job to know what was going on _outside_ of Dain’s realm, too.  It was his job to know where the Firebeard party was, where Lady Katris was.  And he hadn’t heard a thing from any of his agents in almost a week. It wasn’t that they were silent.  He was beginning to fear that they were all dead.

            And that meant that whoever had engineered the disappearance of the queen-to-be was a professional.  One, maybe two agents could be discovered, and it was a regrettable loss. Eight… eight meant that Nori had been outflanked, and outflanked by a professional.  Someone who’d been at this longer than he had.

            Someone who had an interest in sowing discord between the Lonely Mountain and the Firebeard clan.

            He paced his office, trying to gather his thoughts.  He felt like everything was unraveling. He’d spent years creating his spy network, his ear constantly to the ground.  He knew when the Elven king would go hunting. He knew when the Council in Ered Luin would vote. He knew the squabbles of the market people in Dale.  He even knew when his brother Dori and King Dain would have a fight, often before they did. It had been a long time since anything had surprised him.

            He had two agents with the Firebeard clan, and they knew nothing.  The party had left on time, escorted by the best warriors of Firebeard and the Lonely Mountain.  Two more of Nori’s people had gone with the party. The first three weeks of traveling had progressed on schedule.  And then – nothing.

            Worse, the dwarves that Nori had sent ahead as soon as the wedding party failed to appear were also not reporting in.  He’d sent ravens with them, but there was nothing. Nothing!

            The King was fit to be tied.  He’d screamed at Nori this morning, simultaneously forbidding him to leave the Mountain and demanding action immediately.  In response, Dori had gone viciously silent in that cold, deadly way that spelled the worst of their fights. Nori had vacated the royal apartments as hastily as possible.  Dori’s nerves had been frayed past bearing over the last couple of years, and this week it was all coming home to roost.

            He’d have to send volunteers out this time to try to track the Firebeard party.  He couldn’t command his men to go, not after eight of their fellows had fallen to the enemy.  The enemy! By Mahal, who _was_ this enemy?  A decade of careful spycraft, networks of informants and allies all over Middle Earth, and still all he had were doubts and suspicions.  But who would gain by offending both the Firebeard clan _and_ the Longbeards?

            He was pulling his hair in frustration, the carefully combed peaks disintegrating.  Unraveling, indeed.

            Nori was a patient dwarf, usually.  He’d learned it as a thief. The best jobs were heavily planned, all contingencies prepared for, and could take months to play out.  But at least with a theft, you knew what you were working _toward_.

            This shouldn’t be happening. This _shouldn’t_ be happening. Not without warning. Not without _some_ sign that some foe, somewhere, was stirring. Mahal take it, this was Nori’s _job_ : having tendrils everywhere, staying alert for stirrings that might put King Dain in danger. Nori was good at his job. He had an agent in _Gondor_ , for Mahal’s sake, and that had been no easy feat. Nobody should have been able to take him unawares like this…

            Though of course, it was not the first time he’d been ambushed. Or even the second. No, _three_ assassination attempts on the King since the coronation, and still only smoke and scorched earth to show for his efforts.

            For what felt like the thousandth time that day, he took down the framed oil painting of Thorin’s Company from his wall.  Behind it was the product of years of suspicions, all the major political players mapped out intricately, their connections and loyalties, the strength of the evidence…

            Not that anyone else would be able to tell what it was.  To them, it was just ten runestones, each with a single letter, chiseled into the wall, and colored threads running between them.  This was too dangerous to share even with the King himself, who would have tried to eliminate the potential threat by attacking each person or group represented by a runestone.  The Lonely Mountain couldn’t sustain a war on multiple fronts with Dale and the Elves, let alone Ered Luin half a continent away. And Nori had no intention of letting the King turn into a tyrant to eliminate the internal suspects.

_Who could have done this?_

            The elves didn’t care enough about the outside world to assassinate the queen-to-be.  They were too busy trying to root out the rot that had turned the Greenwood into Mirkwood.  Dale enjoyed a quite beneficial trade with the dwarves; they stood only to lose. There were rumblings of war in the south, but Gondor was too far away to care about the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain.

            Pacing helped Nori to think, and he ran his mind over the oft-considered suspects.

            There just wasn’t a good enough reason to suspect either the Elves or the Men. Much as Nori hated to, he had to look closer to home. The Firebeards themselves, so often a suspect when it came to the three assassination attempts on the king, could not have a hand in the disappearance of Lord Deron’s daughter. And the mad queen of Ered Luin… Whatever else Nori might suspect of her, he did not believe for a minute that she’d spill innocent blood – at least, not female blood.

            Which left the internal factions to the Mountain… And Lady Sogere, Dain’s sister and now the dowager chieftainess of Clan Redbeard. She’d been trying for years to get her son named Dain’s heir, but he was the Redbeard clan chief now and there was no precedent for one dwarf heading up two clans. The lawyers had hemmed and hawed, and finally declared it couldn’t be done. Lady Sogere had thrown a mithril-backed hairbrush at the messenger who’d delivered that news, Nori knew, and almost knocked the dwarf out.

            His eyes came to rest on the cluster of suspects that lived within the Lonely Mountain. Here, too, he had only suspicions. But a lot of evidence… Lord Balin, Lord Fardald, Lord Gremai, and Geron Firebeard – who as uncle to the queen-to-be could probably be discounted as a suspect in this particular case – were the prime contenders, though Nori didn’t believe Balin could or would move against Dain.

            And then there were these whispers about the True Heirs of Erebor that he'd been completely unable to track down...

            There was a knock at his door.

            Nori replaced the painting. He opened the door to find Bofur, Dwalin’s husband. Behind him stood Enna, Nori’s on-again off-again lover and one of Bofur’s good friends. Enna was looking upset; Bofur was looking determined.

            Bofur pushed his way past Nori into the room, a ball of nervous energy. He hadn’t been sleeping well, Nori knew. Nor that any of them had, but Bofur’s husband was missing. He had a right to be unraveling.

            Then, to Nori’s dismay, his younger brother stepped into the room.

            Ori’s face was set in determination and his arms were crossed. An implacable Longbeard stubbornness was etched on his thin face.

            Nori knew immediately that he was screwed. Ori didn’t have to say anything, but Nori knew what he was here for. Ori wanted him to help Bofur find Dwalin.

            “I can’t wait anymore,” Bofur said, his voice full of both fear and determination.  “I’m going after him – after _them_.  Will you come with me?”

            Nori blinked.  “What, _tonight?”_

            Bofur nodded.  “Bombur’s packing, and Bifur’s gone to Dale to arrange for ponies.”

            “But… you can’t go without the King’s permission!” Nori blurted.

            Bofur’s jaw hardened.  “The King has no right to deny me the right to seek my husband!”

            “Bofur, remember what happened the last time you left...”  While Bofur was away in Ered Luin a decade back, the King had handed over control of Bofur’s mines to a crony – a Firebeard crony, Geron.  It had taken quite a bit of political maneuvering to get them back, and that was with Dori on Bofur’s side.  Now, things were strained between the King and Dori, and enough time had passed since the death of King Thorin that Bofur’s heroism in the war did not carry the political clout it once had.

            “So he takes my mines!” Bofur snapped.  “Nori, this is _Dwalin_ we’re talking about.  If Ori had gone with the wedding party, you’d be on their trail already.”

            It was true.  Ori had wanted to go, too, to document the journey.  He’d fussed so much about not being allowed to go that Dwalin had promised to keep a journal of all the ceremony and pomp along the way…

            “What about the others?” Nori asked.

            “Bifur thinks there may be an attack on the King, and he’s sworn to stay and protect him.  Bombur would go but he thinks he’d slow me down. Gloin… I didn’t ask Gloin.” The tension between Gloin and Bofur had gone on for several years, much to the dismay of all their friends.  “Balin must stay here to steady the King. Oin’s too old for battle, and Dori would kill me if I asked Ori.”

            Ori grimaced. “I can’t leave Dori alone. You know how he is. This is awful for him. And he won’t leave Dain.”

            Enna added, “I’d go, but you know I’m useless in a fight.”

            Bofur met Nori’s gaze, his jaw determined. “Besides, you’ve been thinking about going yourself anyways.”

            “With a guard!” Nori snapped.  “With warriors! If they could take _Dwalin_ , we cannot underestimate them!”

            “A party would slow us down,” Bofur said.  “Our only chance is to find them and take them by surprise.  The King will say no if I’m the one asking, but he won’t say no to you.”

            It was probably true, Nori reflected.  The King and Bofur did not get along.

            Nori had been a thief for most of his life. He didn’t hold with caring much about other people’s feelings or the consequences of his thieving in their lives; he wouldn’t have been much of a thief if he had. Bofur, now, _Bofur_ was the kind of soft-hearted sucker who would give away his last coin to a down-on-his-luck friend, and had joined the suicide pact of retaking the Lonely Mountain with a shrug and a “It’s the right thing to do.” Bofur believed in loyalty. Nori believed in looking out for yourself.

            But he’d found, in looking out for himself, that there were a couple of people whose happiness he had to look out for if he were to continue to be happy himself. And one of those people was his little brother Ori. Nori had found, much to his chagrin, that he would move mountains to avoid disappointing Ori. And Ori believed in loyalty, too.

            …Not to mention, having Enna’s respect had come to mean more to Nori than he was altogether comfortable with. Enna would think less of him for not aiding Bofur. Nori was aware that a lot of dwarves paid Enna a lot of gold for considerably less than Enna bestowed on Nori for free.

            With a sigh, Nori accepted the inevitable. _Just looking out for family peace and my future sex life,_ he told himself. _It doesn’t mean I’ve gone soft._

            Nori’s eyes found Enna’s. The other dwarf was looking unhappy.  “What do you think, sweeting?” he asked. “Should I follow this madman off to my death?”

            Enna scowled at him.  “I’ve packed your things,” he said tartly.  “I expect you to come back in one piece, or Mahal help me, I will _find a way_ to make you sorry even in death.”

            Nori laughed.  Gorgeous Enna, who knew him so well.  “A kiss for luck, then?” he asked.

            Enna hugged him rather too tightly, and bestowed the kiss on his lips.  Nori could feel him trembling. “You _will_ be careful?” Enna whispered, suddenly looking very young.

            “I’m always careful, sweeting,” Nori whispered back.  He let go of Enna, and straightened. “I’ve got to say _something_ to the King, though.  It wouldn’t do for his spymaster to disappear in the middle of the night.”

            “I’ve asked Dori to let him know you’re going to ask,” Enna told him.  He grimaced. Enna had been Dori’s apprentice, and Nori knew how much he hated to ask Dori for favors, particularly when it involved the King. “Don’t give him time to think about it, or he’ll be contrary just for the sake of being contrary.”

            Even with his mind mostly made up, Nori thought about refusing. Saying no, this was absurd. Neither he nor Bofur were practiced warriors. It had been fifteen years since the last time Nori had been in hand-to-hand combat outside of sparring practice. How could they defeat any enemy that had taken out two dozen trained warriors?

            It wasn’t just that he couldn’t let Bofur rush off and get himself killed. Bofur had every right to do just that, and Nori was not the type to try to argue with another person’s folly. Not even a friend.

            But he knew how this would go if he _didn’t_ go. Ori wouldn’t speak to him. Enna wouldn’t sleep with him. And his older brother Dori, who had created this whole mess by being a stubborn git and insisting that Dain marry – Dori would blame himself.

            Sometimes, Nori wished he’d followed his instincts and taken off after the Battle of the Five Armies with all the loot he could carry. Going straight was just too much hassle.

            Then he looked at Bofur, who was clearly being torn apart inside with panic for his husband. Nori and Bofur had come close to becoming lovers, once, and Bofur was still Nori’s best friend in all the world. After the Battle, Bofur had grieved so deeply for his fallen comrades that Nori had decided to stay a while. Somehow, he had never left.

            He looked at Ori, who was trembling with suppressed emotion, and Enna, whose eloquent face was for once completely blank.

            The things one does for family…


	4. Chapter 4

            He was ushered in to see the King in a surprisingly short amount of time.  Nori wasn’t sure if that was Balin’s doing, or Dori’s.

            Dain looked awful.  He clearly hadn’t been sleeping well, and his usual peevishness had been dulled by a mantle of sadness that was startling in its starkness across his features.

            “I should send warriors with you,” the King said.

            Nori shook his head.  “Whoever could take out twenty armed men would defeat twenty more.  With just the two of us, we’ve got stealth on our side.”

            Dain made a face.  “Your brother is going to shout at me for letting you go unprotected.”

            Nori blinked.  Would Dori do that?  Really?  Shout at the _King_?

            “Ah, well.”  Dain sighed.  “Go, then.  Find the wench.  Find her kidnappers.  Dori’s shouting never hurt anyone.”

            “Yes, sire.”  Nori turned to go.

            “And Nori?”

            “Yes?”  Nori turned back.

            “Don’t get yourself killed.”

            Nori smirked.  “Didn’t know you cared, sire,” he said, daring.

            Dain rolled his eyes.  “Don’t think I couldn’t replace you, thief.  But I’d never hear the end of it, and Dori…  Dori couldn’t take it.”

            This was completely out of character for the King, who tended to be short and snappish with Nori most of the time.  Nori didn’t mind; Dain was short and snappish with everybody.

            It was times like this that Nori remembered that he was one of the very small number of dwarves that Dain trusted implicitly.  And that was saying something; Dain didn’t even trust all of his bodyguards, not completely.

            It occurred to Nori, as he let himself out of the King’s receiving chamber, that after Dori, Nori was the closest thing Dain had to a friend.  Someone who cared how the politics played out, who exerted himself on the King’s behalf, someone who gave a damn if the King lived or died.

            Which was sad, really, because for Nori it was mostly professional.  Yes, he was loyal, and he was fond of the old bastard for all his grumpiness.  But he’d put himself squarely in Dain’s corner, refusing all other comers – and there had been plenty who’d tried to trick or bribe his loyalty – because it gave him the most room to play the intriguing game of spycraft that was better than any thieving job.

            Best not to let the King know that, especially not as he was taking off for parts unknown.


	5. Chapter 5

            Dwalin had a go-to method for things that got in his way: he hit them hard.  In this case, it was the solid oak door, locked securely, with the hinges unfortunately on the other side.  He did try to pick the lock first, using a pick he’d sewn into his undershirt for just that purpose.  It had taken hours to get the burlap sacking off his head and hands, and his fingers were slippery with sweat.  He couldn’t get the tumblers in the right position, and in the end decided that brute force was his best bet.

            He’d thought it through.  Most likely, he’d need to fight through whatever resistance he encountered on the far side of the wall, then leave the building.  It was not realistic to find the Firebeard chit, if the other prisoner were she, and get her out.  He’d have to hide, then follow them.  He’s have to wait until he had the advantage of surprise.

            He hated it – it felt like deserting his post – but his job was to _save_ Lady Katris, not die honorably trying to get her out when he was outnumbered.

            His brother Balin often chided him for taking things head on instead of applying a bit of politicking.  He would no doubt disapprove of just _how_ head on Dwalin was about to take this.  Well, Balin also called him hard-headed….

            Dwalin retreated to the far side of the room to give himself a running start.  With a burst of speed, he launched himself at the door.  He was careful to aim for the weakest part of the wood, just next to the lock, and he closed his eyes against flying splinters.

            A Man-made door didn’t stand a chance against a hard-headed dwarf, and the door splintered and burst in the face of his acceleration.  It hurt like the dickens, of course, but Dwalin managed to stay present enough to his surroundings to roll when he hit the floor and come up on his feet in a fighting stance.

            Shocked faces looked back at him – Men, he noted, not Dwarves – but the element of surprise lasted only for a moment.  Already they were reaching for their weapons.  A glance found the nearest door, and Dwalin dashed toward it.  He crossed the threshold at a speed nearly equal to his jump through the locked door.

            One more room, and he could see the door to the outside world at the other end of it.  There were shouts behind him, and he weaved in case of arrows shot as he sped towards freedom.

            Then abruptly, everything went icy white.  His vision flared, his body felt like it had suddenly been caught in a net and yanked abruptly still.  His ears roared, and his mind scrambled to catch up.  He felt abruptly ill.

            He realized that he was hanging in the air, between one step and the next, completely immobilized.  Try as he might, he couldn’t get a single part of his body to move.

            The icy prickle crawled over him.  _Magic._   He’d only felt it once before, but it was unmistakable.  These bastards had _magic_ , which meant they had a wizard!  And if a wizard had decided to meddle in the affairs of the Lonely Mountain, they were in bad straits indeed.

            He heard a step behind him, and a tall, rail-thin Man in leather and furs stepped in front of him.  When he spoke, it was the same cold voice Dwalin had heard earlier.  He was speaking to somebody, or somebodies, behind Dwalin.

            “You idiots,” the man hissed.  His beard was a bit of a wisp at his chin; Dwalin mentally sneered at it.  “You _idiots_!  I told you, _do not leave them alone_.”

            “Jake’s in with the dwarven bitch,” a man whined.  “Why do we even have this one?  We should have killed him with the rest.”

            “This is why _I_ make the plans, Gawon,” the thin man – wizard? – hissed.  “Do you not see the markings on this one?  He is Dwalin, son of Fundin.  The Firebeard chit is practically worthless next to him.  We’ll ransom half the Lonely Mountain for him!”

            Not bloody likely, Dwalin thought.  With that sort of provocation, the dwarves would declare war.  Not even the King would be ransomed at so high a cost.  But it was worth more than his life to say so.  He was well and truly trapped, and only this wizard’s conviction that his family would pay for his return would let him live to fight another day.  Dalin’s ears burned with the humiliation of it, but he was in no position to protest.  Though rage boiled in his belly, he knew how to turn it down to a simmer.  It would fuel his escape with Lady Katris later.

            “Shackles,” the man said.  “Hands and feet.  Not even the legendary Dwalin son of Fundin can break iron.”

            Dwalin hung in the air, immobile, as shackles were fetched and fastened about his hands and feet.  It was humiliating to not be able to fight his captors, and he seethed.

            The spell was released without warning, and he didn’t have time to brace himself before he fell to the floor.  His knees buckled and he sprawled, chains rattling.  He yelled defiance at the knot of men pulling at the chains, but still he could not prevent them dragging him back to the featureless room.

            At least he knew for sure now who the other prisoner was.  And with the Queen-to-be kidnapped, the Lonely Mountain would stop at nothing to rescue them.  Dwalin just hoped he wouldn’t get killed in the process.


	6. Chapter 6

            They left in the night, stealing away like thieves.  For Nori, this was his way, and Bofur’s face was set and grim, his mind clearly elsewhere.  They rode hard, exchanging ponies along the way until the inns dwindled and they stopped meeting travelers on the road.  On a deserted stretch of seldom-traveled road, they found what they were looking for.

            It was awful.  Not only the carnage, which was bad enough, but wild animals had torn apart the bodies.  The two of them worked for hours, gathering bits and pieces and limbs and guts.  Counting bodies.  Building a funeral pyre.

            Nori’s shoulders got tenser and tenser as they worked in silence, braced for when they would find Dwalin.  He wasn’t sure how Bofur would react.  His friend taken King Thorin’s death very hard, unable to speak for days.  How would he react to the loss of his husband?

            Body after body went on the pyre.  Nori was counting in his head, and he kept an eye out for a red-haired lass as well.  If the Firebeard bride was dead, maybe Dain would get his head out of his arse and refuse to marry.  There was a younger dwarf in the line of succession; it wasn’t as if there would be a power vacuum.  Of course, this whole arrangement was as much the fault of Dori as of the King.  He’d insisted.  Nori had wondered if Dori had been hoping that Dain would refuse, but it turned out that Dori really did feel strongly that the Mountain needed an heir.  Dain, like everyone subjected to Dori’s strident hectoring for a sufficient time, said yes just to shut him up.

            And here they were, Dain and Dori both miserable, Dwalin probably dead, the Firebeards’ Lady Katris nowhere to be found, and Bofur and Nori covered with blood and grime. Nori wished his brother didn’t have such a perverse wish to sabotage his own happiness.

 

* * *

 

            Realization came slowly, as the number of remaining bodies dwindled down to the single digits and Dwalin’s massive shoulders and tattoos were nowhere to be found.  Nori glanced at Bofur, who had been holding himself stiffly, braced for the blow, all day.  Now his shoulders had untensed, though his face was still grim.

            “They must have taken him with the Firebeard girl,” Nori ventured.

            Bofur nodded slowly.  “Probably,” he agreed.  “They’re beyond stupid if they think Dwalin will stand for being ransomed.”

            “It’s not Dwalin they’d ask,” Nori reminded him.

            “The King would never authorize paying such a ransom.”

            “And it’s not Dain who’d get to make that decision,” Nori said slowly.  “Dwalin joined clan Broadbeam when he married you.”  Best thing Dwalin could have done; he’d jumped at the chance to take himself out of the line of succession and the political jockeying, intrigues, and suspicion that went with it. “It would be up to your clan head.”

            Bofur’s eyes flickered despair.  The Broadbeam clan head was his uncle, and a more unpleasant, drunkard piece of work Nori had never had the misfortune to meet.  Old Balur wouldn’t authorize the payment of a ransom.

            But Balur was in Ered Luin, half a continent away.  Bofur’s cousin Bifur was acting head of clan Broadbeam at the Lonely Mountain, and he _would_ authorize the ransom if Bofur asked him to.  It was Bofur’s money, after all.  And Dwalin’s, no doubt.  The treasure they’d won by fighting with King Thorin to regain the Mountain.

            On the other hand, if King Dain were to send an army…

            “We haven’t received any ransom demand,” Nori reminded him.  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.  And even if they do demand ransom, it may not be money they ask for.”  And wasn’t that a depressing thought.

            Bofur’s shoulders straightened, his jaw grim with determination.  “We’re going to find them before that happens,” he said.

            But first, they finished gathering the bodies.  So many could not be buried, not without it taking days.  No one liked a funeral pyre, but it was necessary.  Nori, who could remember everything he’d ever seen, made himself look full in the face of each dead dwarf.  Later, he’d get Ori to sketch them so that their loved ones could know for sure that they were gone and not live in tortured hope.

            It took hours to build the pyre.  Nori knew Bofur chafed at the trail running cold, but neither of them suggesting leaving the dead to follow the kidnappers.  This was a duty owed to any dead dwarf: to bury them and perform the chants for the dead to ensure their safe crossing to the halls of Mandos.  Not war, not love, not even kidnapping could supersede that responsibility.

            When they lit the fires, Nori braced himself.  The smell of burning flesh always brought back memories of the Battle of the Five Armies.  The cleanup had taken weeks, bodies of Dwarf and Elf and Orc and Man rotting from exposure as they tried desperately to heal the wounded with not enough medicine or beds, everyone scrambling to identify their loved ones.  They’d had to resort to pyres then, too, the smoke choking their lungs with the extent of their loss.  A bitter victory that cost too much: King Thorin and his princes lay in their tomb deep beneath the Mountain.

            It took the rest of the day and all night for the bodies to burn.  The two of them tended the fires constantly, trading off chanting for the dead as the other looked for more firewood.  It became hypnotic.  The chants for the dead always did, and Nori had to shake himself out of a light trance more than once.  The kidnappers might still be close enough to see the smoke of the pyres, and would know their massacre had been discovered; they might even send someone to dispatch the discoverers.

            Just as the sun was lightening the skies to the east, a company of elves stepped out of the forest.  They did not have their weapons raised, but Nori tensed nonetheless; elves could be unpredictable.  He nudged Bofur, who looked up, saw the elves, shrugged, and continued the chants for the dead.  This was clearly going to be up to Nori.  He groaned internally; Bofur got along with elves better than anyone he knew.  He even had a friendship with the elf lord Elrond, one of the most powerful elves in Middle Earth.  He’d be much better suited to this.

            Nori recognized the leader of the elves by his long silver-white hair; it was the princeling of the Greenwood, Legolas.  This elf had in the past been both captor and savior to Thorin’s Company.  Nori and Bofur and all the Company had been imprisoned by him once.  Nori’s hand inched toward one of his many knives.

            To his secret relief, the elf bowed his regal head and offered no challenge.  “Nori son of Kori, Bofur son of Balfur,” he acknowledged, his mellifluous voice managing to blend with Bofur’s chanting rather than jar discordantly.

            Nori nodded in return.  “Prince Legolas of the Greenwood,” he greeted.

            “We saw the smoke,” the prince told them.  “I take it there has been a battle.”

            “Yes,” Nori said, biting off the “my lord” that rose to his lips; old enmities died just as hard as the remnants of growing up in the gutter and having to learn to grovel to rich people.  “A massacre, more like.  A company of Firebeards and some of our warriors from the Mountain.”

            Legolas frowned.  “A massacre?  On a public road?  Who would do such a thing?”

            Nori’s immediate instinct was to obfuscate, but the real story would no doubt spread quickly so he decided to tell the truth.  “Someone who didn’t want King Dain to marry clan chief Deron’s daughter,” he said.  “They appear to have taken her and perhaps others hostage.”  He eyed the elf with the distrust that came naturally between their peoples.  Could the elves have done such a thing?

Legolas raised an immaculate eyebrow.  “Ransom, do you think?”

            “Perhaps.”

            Legolas pondered this.  “How many dead?”

            “Thirty-one.”

            The elf's lips tightened, anger flashing in his eyes.  “They dare to do this here?  At the gates of the Greenwood?”

            That had not occurred to Nori.  They were, as Legolas said, just outside the Greenwood.  Only a fool would dare anger the elves by killing within the Greenwood itself.  King Thranduil was taking such things more seriously these days.  “Yes, my lord.”  The phrase slipped out before Nori could snatch it back, but that was fine; it would ease the way to his next request.  “We will follow the trail when day breaks, but meanwhile we must chant for our dead.  It is necessary.”  With any luck, the proud elf would think of it himself…

            An elf with long auburn hair stepped up next to Legolas and spoke quietly to him.  Nori recognized her as well; she had been captain of the Elf-King’s guard when Thorin’s Company was captured in the Greenwood years ago.  Thorin’s nephew Kili had taken a shine to her.

            She and Legolas seemed to be having an argument.

            Legolas turned back to them, his blue eyes stormy.  “They offer insult to the Greenwood by this killing,” he said abruptly.  “We will help you track the killers.”

            Victory!  Nori made sure not to let the relief show on his face.  He and Bofur were no match to an elf for tracking.

            “Tauriel will go with you,” Legolas said, nodding to the elf with the auburn hair.  “We will not dishonor you by offering aid in the fight, unless you request it,” and here his lip curled, acknowledging the prickly honor of dwarves, “but she is our best tracker and can find the ones who thumb their noses at the elves by killing at our doorstep.”

            Nori understood, from the fire in Legolas’s eyes and the way he held himself very, very stiffly, that the elf prince was furious at the insult.  No doubt he longed to avenge the Greenwood himself in this matter.  But he was a good prince and knew his duty, even if he burned for combat underneath the outward mask.

            “Thank you,” Nori said, because the first thing he’d learned when he became a thief was that people didn’t look closely at people who were polite.  Thranduil had spies in the Lonely Mountain, of course, and would know who Nori was – but perhaps the princeling would not.  “We leave when the sun rises; the chants for the dead require nothing less.

            When the sun rose, Nori penned a missive to Dain that he entrusted to Legolas.  Though his spymaster mind could not completely eliminate the possibility that the elves had committed this massacre, there simply wasn’t any reason for them to do so, and Legolas held honor more sacred than his royal father.

            Nori, Tauriel, and Bofur left the funeral pyres, heading southwest.

            Tauriel didn’t speak much as they traveled.  She picked up the trail easily enough, and Nori was thankful for it; he and Bofur could have wandered for days following false leads.

            They rode for two days and came to a town with an inn.  Tauriel led them inside, and the dwarves bought some ale while she slipped into back rooms.  She joined them after a few minutes, looking puzzled.

            “The trail leads here,” she said.  “They definitely came in – two dwarves and a number of men.  But there’s no trail _out_.  It doesn’t seem like they left.”

            “Do you mean that they’re still here?” Bofur asked, his voice rising with hope.

            Tauriel shook her head.  “No, the scent Is several days old.”

            Nori signaled the innkeeper, who ambled over with refills.  Nori tipped him generously, then asked about a party that had arrived a few days before with dwarves.

            “Aye, a party came through a few days ago,” the man said, “but there were no dwarves with them.”

            “Where did they stay?” Bofur pressed.

            “They let most of the place.  Heavy spenders, they were.  They met a tall man with a staff and a short beard,” the innkeeper said, stroking his chin to indicate a goatee.  “I don’t mind saying, I was glad _he_ didn’t stay long.  Gave me the willies, he did.  Downright spooky, my wife called him.”

            “How so?”

            “Odd eyes.  Yellow, like a cat’s.  It was like he looked through you.”  The man shivered.  “A magician, the rumors said.  Maybe even a wizard.  Who knows, these days.  There’s all sorts of strange things happening since the Lonely Mountain opened up again.”

            A wizard!  Nori rocked back on his heels.  He’d only ever met two wizards in his life, and he was sure Gandalf had said there were no more of them.  He’d always thought that wizards were on the side of honor and justice and all that malarkey; surely they wouldn’t countenance kidnapping?

            Mahal _take_ it!  Wizards were above his paygrade.  Who could fight a wizard?

            _You fought a dragon once_ , an inner voice reminded him.  _Won, even._

            _…Well_ , it conceded a moment later, _didn’t **lose** , anyways._

The innkeeper moved off.

            Tauriel was looking thoughtful.  “Magic,” she mused.  “Yes, that could explain it.  They’ve masked their scent magically.”

            Bofur looked haunted.  “So we have no way to track them.”

            Tauriel began to shake her head, then stopped.  An idea had clearly occurred to her.  “Well…” she said.  “It depend on if they masked just the dwarves, or the whole party.  They may have forgotten to mask the horses.”

            Nori’s dread lightened.  Men could be so sloppy.  “Can you find out?

 

* * *

 

            They set out again the next morning with fresh horses.  Nori sent thanks to Mahal for the elf, for he and Bofur would never be able to track the party without her, not now that magic was being used to confound the trail.  Even with Tauriel’s skill, the going slowed considerably.  They had to retrace their steps several times, and the days began to pile up.  Nori sent messages back to the Mountain with travelers they met on the road, but the traces were growing fainter with every passing day.  The lines around Bofur’s mouth began to look grim.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

            The next couple of days were some of the worst of Dwalin’s life.  Though the magician did not keep him completely magically immobilized – no doubt that would have been a drain on his magic – he did enchant manacles that were impossible to escape.  Not that Dwalin didn’t try, of course, melting several of the lockpicks sewn into his coat in the process.  For the most part, the kidnappers kept Dwalin in the dark, bound and gagged, with a bag over his head.  Once a day they fed him and let him visit the latrines, still manacled.  He did not see the other prisoner, and had to hope she was alright.

            They traveled hard.  During the day, he was tied to the back of a horse, and from its movements it didn’t seem that they were traveling on roads anymore.  Once they forded a steam, and once they skirted around a town that he heard his captors talking about.  They camped; there were no more inns.

            They traveled like this for six days at a brutal pace.  Then one day, unexpectedly, Dwalin felt himself hauled off the horse, dragged up what had to be quite a lot of stone steps, and hurled onto a stone floor.  A short time later, a soft, warm, heavy weight hit him; no doubt the other prisoner.  Someone spoke, and the eerie feeling of being completely magically immobilized settled over him.  His manacles were unlocked and fell to the floor.  He regained his ability to move and snatched the burlap bag off of his head just in time to see a large metal door slam shut.

            The other prisoner removed the bag more slowly, a mass of tangled red curls falling around her shoulders.  Her green eyes traveled around the room, taking in the details.  Dwalin’s eyes followed hers.

            They were in a tower, that much was clear.  There was only one door, and it was shut.  Knowing it was a futile hope, Dwalin convinced his aching limbs and badly splinted leg to help him stand and go try to open it.  He couldn’t.  There was no knob, of course, and the hinges were on the other side of the door.  It was clearly a prison, for there was a slot at the bottom of the door to shove their food through, and another at a Man’s eye height to look in at the prisoners.  That one was currently closed.

            One window, barred.  Dwalin spent a good five minutes testing whether there was a way to bend the iron bars.  The window wasn’t large enough for him to get through, but perhaps Lady Katris could…. But no, they were quite sturdily made.  What was worse, when he touched them he got that tingling feeling he’d had when the wizard had done his magic.

            Not quite daring to look at the woman he’d failed to protect, Dwalin continued to make an inventory of the room.  It was all stonework; not a rug or wood panel in sight.  Not bad stonework, though of course nothing up to dwarven standards.

            Two thin pallets with blankets, a chamberpot behind a ragged curtain – something inside him quailed to see it, and he swiftly tamped down the panic again – an oil lamp, a bucket of water, a loaf of bread, what looked like a two small piles of clothes…. That was it.

            He’d have preferred an underground prison.  The reassurance of being under the ground as dwarves were meant to be would have outweighed fresh air and knowing the time of day.

            Finally, when there was nothing else he could pretend to be occupied with, he took a look at the young Firebeard woman who was staring at the floor, no doubt struggling to master her emotions.

            Dwalin abruptly missed Bofur with an intensity that surprised him.  He hadn’t let himself think about Bofur since he’d been taken.  Bofur would know the perfect thing to say to this sheltered young woman whose friends and family had been slaughtered around her.  Dwalin had no idea what to say.

            “Mister Dwalin.”

            Dwalin jerked, startled, to hear her clear, musical voice.  There was suppressed emotion there, yes, but Lady Katris was not on the brink of hysterics.  Dwalin reminded himself that most of the women he knew were quite sensible, so perhaps he shouldn’t make any assumptions about this one.  “My lady?”

            “Which bed would you like?”

            What?  “Er – pardon?”

            She rose, and went to stand by the pallets.  “We need food and sleep before we try to think of a plan.  Do you have a preference in beds?”

            “Er.”  He blinked, trying to catch up.  “Uh, no, my lady.”

            She did not meet his eyes, which put him on alert.  She bent and picked up one of the ballets and its blanket with it.  “We’ll partition the room,” she said firmly, and began to drag the pallet across the floor.

            Dwalin took a look at the room and saw an immediate problem.  “No, my lady,” he called.  Her flinch, though subtle, spoke volumes.  Dwalin felt his cheeks heat, realizing the crux of the problem.  She was trying to put as much distance as possible between them.  She was afraid of him.

            He considered whether there was a gentle way to make his point, and just as quickly decided he’d make a hash of it.  Instead, he offered bluntness.  “Madam, I am a married man.  You have naught to fear from me.”

            When she turned, she met his eyes for the first time.  He could see she did not entirely believe him.

            “We shall partition the room as you wish, my lady,” he said.  “But I’ll sleep in front of the door.  I can do a fair bit of damage with my hands if anyone enters meaning to harm you.”

            Did he see her relax slightly?  “Very well,” she said.  “I’ll take the other side.”

            “As you wish, my lady.”

            It was the work of a moment to set his pallet and blanket in front of the door.  He tore the loaf of bread in half and offered one half to Lady Katris, realizing that some part of him would rather have remained tied up with a bag over his head than try to figure out what to say to the queen-to-be.  Something he loved about bodyguarding was that he usually didn’t have to make small talk.

            She took the other half and sat on her pallet, her back very straight.  He sat on his pallet; they chewed.  It was unbearably awkward. 

            He brought her a dipper of water when they’d finished the bread, which she took solemnly.  She looked up at him, face carefully neutral, and said, “You’re lucky you’re already married, Mister Dwalin.  Otherwise you’d be obliged to marry me at the end of all this.”

            Dwalin took a step back and nearly dropped the dipper.  For a long moment her words made no sense.  Then he looked around the room – the room the two of them shared, he an aging warrior, she a virgin heiress – and knew what the King would assume the minute he found out they’d been quartered together.

            “We’ll tell Dain we were in adjoining cells,” he said brusquely.  It wasn’t as if he had any designs on her virtue.  “The important bit is to find a way out.”

            Now she really did relax.  She even offered him a brief smile.  “I am in your debt,” she said.  “I wonder if our captors meant for you to ruin me?”

            “Probably,” Dwalin said glumly.

            Something flickered in her eyes, and was just as quickly hidden.  She turned away.  “Let’s get to sleep, Mister Dwalin.  We’ll think better in the morning.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bifur plays a big part in this story, so I feel a need to give a blanket warning about ableism, both external and internalized, here and in the chapters ahead.

            Bifur, bodyman to King Dain and acting chief of clan Broadbeam, was on guard duty in the King’s private chambers.  Once upon a time, bodyguards had been stationed outside the King’s chambers, but three assassination attempts had put paid to any semblance of privacy.  The only time the King was allowed in a room without a bodyman was when he was alone with Dori, who had proven himself capable of protecting the King with his life when necessary.

            It was not a foregone conclusion that a Broadbeam warrior, even one of Bifur’s skill and prowess, would end up bodyguard to the Longbeard King Under the the Mountain.  Seventeen years before and half a continent away, Bifur had been on clan watch duty at the walls of Ered Luin when a small band of orcs tried to attack a party of traveling dwarves.  The traveling party had arrived at the dwarf city after the gates were locked for the night, and made camp just outside.  After summoning the city watch, Bifur had gone down to help the dwarves fight off their attackers, and had met his end when an orc came up behind and buried an axe in Bifur’s head.

            Bifur knew that Mahal had not made the dwarves to be reborn.  That was an Elvish thing, not a Dwarvish one.  Nonetheless, sometime in the ensuing weeks of pain and madness and begging his cousins to let him die, Mahal had whispered in his ear, _“You have been granted a new life.  Do not waste it.  The first Bifur was slain, but the second Bifur has a great destiny to fulfill.”_

            Recovery had been long and slow, painful and difficult.  Still, when Bifur thought of the fact that, being reborn, he was essentially a dwarfling all over again – well, at least it hadn’t taken seventy years to grow up this time around!  His cousins had tended him for the first terrible year: Bofur caring for his body and Bombur caring for his mind.  They taught him to walk and speak again, though even now it was unbearably painful to try to speak anything but an antique dialect of Khuzdul; thankfully this was less of a problem in the Lonely Mountain, where Common was not required.  What took longer was learning to _think_ properly again.  Bifur was very aware that he did not think like most people, or like he had in his first life.  It had taken years to work out a method to help his racing-fast brain be able to take in and understand information in a more balanced way rather than reacting out of instinctual emotion.

            He was immensely proud of what he’d built of his life in the past seventeen years: helping his people reclaim the Lonely Mountain and saving the life of his pledged King.  He had riches beyond measure, the best family in the world, a spiritual life that was highly satisfying with regular contact with the spirits beyond, and a job that suited him well.  Every once in a while he wondered, though, if retaking the Mountain had been what his god had meant by “a great destiny to fulfill,” or if there was something more.

            The Mountain was thick with tension today, people’s moods trying to seep in through Bifur’s skin as he fought to keep them out.  People’s emotions were one of the hardest things to deal with in his new life.  He had to reinforce his emotional shields regularly on days like this one.

            He looked around the King’s quarters _(Assessment: one entrance, room for fighting if necessary, Safety: 9/10)_ , forcing his brain to slow down to be able to take in the situation rather than overwhelm him.

             The King _(Relationship: chief, Mood: angry and lonely, Bombur-Bofur-Dwalin trust: 7/10, Bifur trust: 9/10)_ and Dori had been fighting again, which meant that Bifur was stationed inside with Tevren _(Relationship: comrade-in-arms, Mood: tense, Dwalin trust: 9/10, Bifur trust: 10/10)._ Jakon _(Relationship: comrade-in-arms, Mood: good, Dwalin trust: 9/10, Bifur trust: 10/10)_ and Horlen _(Relationship: comrade-in-arms, Mood: annoyed, Dwalin trust: 9/10, Bifur trust: 9/10)_ were stationed just outside.  The King was attempting to read his morning reports, but he had left off reading ten minutes ago and was staring into space, clearly worrying at something in his mind.  Probably Dori _(Relationship: family-not-blood, Mood: furious when last seen, Dwalin trust: 9/10, Bifur trust: 10/10)_.  Bifur did not understand their relationship.  It seemed to thrive on shouting, and usually Bifur hated anger.  For years, shouting had been fine for the two of them, but in the past year, since the marriage agreement was finalized, the shouting had taken on an edge it had never had before.  Both Dain and Dori had turned inward, bitter.

            Bifur pitied the Firebeard lass who would be stepping into this mess, all unknowing.  That is, if she were not dead.  It had been several days since Bofur and Nori had left to track the lost wedding party, and there should have been news by now.  The bodymen had all been on tenterhooks for weeks now. 

_(Plan of action: wait for more information.)_

            He tensed at the knock.  So did the King.  Few people had the right to disturb the King in the morning; if Jakon and Horlen had allowed them by, perhaps it meant news.  He nodded to Tevren, who opened the door.

            _(Plan of action: protect the King if threatened)_

            Lord Balin _(Relationship: family-not-blood, Mood: unhappy, Dwalin trust: 10/10, Bifur trust: 8/10)_ stood outside with an open letter.  He bowed.  Bifur knew Balin well enough to see that the dwarf would rather not be delivering this news.

            _Not Bofur_ , Bifur prayed, his hands clenched around the handle of his pike.  He swallowed hard, hoping that one of the spirits beyond was here in the room, though he didn’t see any of them.  _Not Dwalin.  They’re half of clan Broadbeam here at the Mountain._ A tiny clan like theirs could not spare a single person.

            “What news, Lord Balin?” the King asked.  “A raven from Nori?”

            “Alas, no, Majesty,” Balin said.  “We’ve yet to hear from him.  We have news instead of another traveling party, coming from the west.  The Redbeard contingent, your Majesty.”

            The King swore under his breath.

            Balin grimaced.  “They’re to arrive today, early afternoon.  Your sister…”  His voice trailed off.

            _(Lady Sogere – Relationship: chief’s family, Balin-Dwalin-Nori trust: 2/10, Bifur trust: not yet assessed)_

            “My sister will no doubt have much to say about my being so foolish as to misplace my bride before the wedding!” Dain snapped.

            “…requests to see you immediately,” Balin finished, an apologetic look on his face.  “Majesty, I can put her off if you need – ”

            Dain was rubbing his temples.  Tevren, with the long practice of years, reached for the jar of headache pills and put it within Dain’s reach without attracting attention.  Absently, Dain swallowed one.  Balin remained silent.

            “No,” Dain said after a long pause.  “It’s best to get it over with.”  He frowned.  “Sogere is not a patient woman.  Nori is fortunate that he is not here to answer the questions she will undoubtedly have.”

            Balin, through long experience with the King, did not reply directly.  Instead, he offered, “The Redbeards are only the first.  Others are on their way.”

            Several of the other clan chiefs would be coming, Bifur remembered.  And Lady Dis, the late King Thorin’s sister, called (in whispers) the Mad Queen of Ered Luin.  _(Relationship: extended family-not-blood-not-well-known, Dwalin trust: 7/10, Bofur trust 2/10, Bifur trust: uncertain)._ Lady Dis would have something to say about a misplaced bride as well.  She’d shown up, unexpectedly, for Dwalin and Bofur’s wedding.  It wasn’t that she hadn’t been invited, but nobody had expected her to travel for two months across a continent for a cousin that no one remembered her being all that close to.  Balin had been fit to be tied…

            “Lord Balin,” Dain said testily, “why do you make it your continual duty to remind me of unpleasant things?”

            Balin’s beard drooped.  Bifur knew it upset the dwarf that his duty was to do just this.  “Sire, I fear I have one more unpleasant bit of news to impart,” he said quietly.

            Bifur saw Dain clench a fist under the table, but since he did not slam that fist down on the heavy wood, Bifur decided the king had his anger well enough in hand that intervention would likely not be needed.

            _(Plan of action: intervene if Dain loses his temper)_

            “Well?” Dain snapped.  “Speak up, man.”

            “Prince Legolas of the Greenwood has been sighted riding toward the Mountain.  He’s a few miles off yet, but it’s clear he’s been in battle.  I fear he brings news.”

            _(Prince Legolas – Relationship: jailer-ally(?), Mood: calm all the Mahal-blasted time, Bombur-Bofur-Dwalin trust: 5/10, Bifur trust: 6/10)_

            Dain frowned.  “A battle?  Think you that he rides for aid from the Mountain?”  Bifur saw his back straighten; Dain was at his best in all matters military.  Just as quickly, the King shook his head, slumping in disappointment.  “No, there’d have been smoke signals if they wanted us to muster.  Just the same, it bodes ill.  Have a company of dwarves prepare to ride out if necessary, and make ready to welcome the elvish prince.”

            _(Plan of action: wait)_

 

* * *

 

            With the arrival of important visitors, Dori reappeared in his role as Head Chamberlain.  No trace of this morning’s fight was visible on his face; indeed, Bifur could see no hint of emotion of any kind on Dori’s face.  That meant that Dori was in a bad way indeed.  Dwarves were not known for their ability to suppress their emotions.  Dori, face blank, took charge easily of the preparations for the Redbeard party.  _(Relationship: family-not-blood, Mood: wound to breaking point, Bombur-Bofur-Dwalin trust: 9/10, Bifur trust: 10/10)_

            Prince Legolas reached the Mountain soon after Balin’s notification.  Bifur relieved the Elf of his weapons, at least what was visible, though he noted easily where the prince still carried hidden knives.  He passed this information on to the other guards using _iglishmêk_ , the dwarf mining sign language, that he had insisted they all learn for just this kind of purpose.  Bifur took his position next to the King in the audience chamber – the awful one with the solid gold floor – and Tevren shadowed the Elf as he entered.

            _(Assessment: multiple entrances, upper levels secured but perilous, open to public, not sufficient room for maneuvering, shiny floor can unexpectedly blind depending on the light, Safety: 4/10)_ ,

            Lord Balin was on Dain’s other side, to serve as advisor.  Lord Fardald _(Relationship: courtier to chief, Mood: coolly amused, Balin-Dwalin trust: 3/10, Bifur trust: 6/10)_ and Lord Gremai _(Relationship: courtier to chief, Mood: angry, Dwalin trust: 3/10, Bifur trust: 4/10) w_ ere seated among the courtiers, but Balin still took precedence, to Bifur’s relief.  Balin had a sound head on his shoulders, and put the good of the Lonely Mountain before everything else.  At least, he did most of the time.  Fardald and Gremai were in a silent war for power and position, and had been for years.  They tried to drag Balin into it, and sometimes forced his hand.

            Despite the friction between Balin and Dain, the King had never pulled Balin into the court games of intrigue and power plays.  Dain had never been a stupid dwarf, and Balin could be a valuable friend or a formidable enemy.  Dain knew he needed Balin.  Bifur suspected that Dain resented it, but Dain was a tactician at heart and would not risk alienating his strongest ally and nominal heir.

            When the Elf prince entered the audience chamber, Bifur’s eyes briefly met Balin’s.  They both acknowledged their conflicted emotions about this princeling who had so much history with them.

            _(Plan of action: spear the Elf if he reaches for a knife)_

            After the formal greetings and protocol were out of the way – Bifur could see Dain positively squirming with impatience – Prince Legolas said in his musical voice, “I apologize, oh King, for appearing before you in such disarray.  I was set upon by bandits on the road, and it was no accident that I was.  I bring a message from Nori son of Kori and Bofur son of Balfur.  I believe the bandits meant to prevent their news from reaching you.”

            A murmur ran through the crowd.  Bifur wondered whether it had been a good idea to have the formal greeting with such a large audience.  He wasn’t picking up on anything particularly off, but that could get masked with so many people.

            “You have news from them of the Firebeard party?” the King asked, his voice slightly strangled.

            “Alas, I do, your majesty,” Legolas said.

            Dori, standing to Bifur’s left, went very, very still.  Glancing over at him, Bifur could see lines of tension in the dwarf’s shoulders and brows, and his hands were clenched so hard they could have milked stone.  _(Mood: terrified)_

            “The party came under attack two weeks ago,” Legolas said.  “It was a near-total rout.  Thirty-one slain.”

 _No_.  Bifur wished he could close his eyes against the wave of pain that hit him, but he could not leave the King unprotected, even for a second.  Still, the news rocked him.  His brother-in-law, Dwalin, dead?

            Next to him, Dori swayed on his feet, his face grey.

_(Danger!  Too much emotion.  Danger!)_

            With great effort, Bifur steadied his breathing and forced his thoughts from grief.  Time enough for that later.  He caught sight of one of the spirits beyond at his shoulder, and blinked his gratitude for the moral support.

_(Plan of action: track down the killers and flay them alive.)_

             “Near-total?” Balin asked, when the King appeared unable to say a word.

            “Two bodies were not found, my lord,” Legolas said.  “The Lady Katris was not among the dead, nor was Dwalin son of Fundin.  They may have been taken prisoner.”

            “By whom?” Dain croaked.  “Who could possibly…?”

            “I do not know, oh King.  I have sent my best tracker with Nori and Bofur after them.  I grieve, majesty, for the loss of life of your kinsmen and those of your intended Queen.”

            Balin stepped forward and whispered in the King’s ear.  Dain nodded, then turned to the assembly.  “We will adjourn to a more private place to hear the rest of the details.  Our thanks, Prince Legolas of the Greenwood, and we invite you to join us in our private audience chamber.”

            Bifur allowed himself a gulp of air in his relief.  He murmured his thanks to Mahal that Dwalin did not appear to be dead.  Yet.

            _(Plan of action: Find out more, then make a plan)_

* * *

 

            Back in the King’s quarters _(Assessment: one entrance, room for fighting if necessary, Safety: 9/10)_ , there were fewer hangers-on.  Unfortunately (to Bifur’s mind), Lord Fardald _(Mood: coolly amused)_ and Lord Gremai _(Mood: uneasy)_ were among the courtiers who made the cut.  Balin was there _(Mood: relieved but upset)_ , and Dori _(Mood: about to shatter)_ , and of course the King _(Mood: worried about Dori)._ Tevren _(Mood: distrustful of the Elf)_ and Bifur positioned themselves so that if the Elven prince were to attack, one or both of them would have time to interpose their bodies before the King.

            Prince Legolas was close enough to Bifur that the dwarf could pick up a muted undercurrent of emotion, though elves were always harder for him to read than dwarves.  Dwarven emotions were generally clear and straightforward, showing up almost like musical notes in Bifur’s mind.  True, dwarves like Nori and Balin had learned to mute or mask theirs, so it was not _always_ easy, but compared to Elves and Men – and wizards, who were damn near impossible to read – dwarves were quite simple.  Hobbits, too, or at least Bilbo had been.  And of course, being anywhere near madness was intensely uncomfortable and discordant for Bifur.

            The Elf was definitely not mad, but it was as if everything were dialed down by a factor of ten.  Perhaps elves just did not experience emotions as strongly as dwarves, or perhaps this Elf had learned to control his feelings, or perhaps he was just… bland… inside.  All that Bifur could pick up was a current of anger, carefully controlled.  The anger was not directed at the King, so Bifur relaxed a little.

            The Elf’s report boded ill.  A massively overwhelming attack on the wedding party – which was guarded by some of the most highly trained dwarves of the Longbeard and Firebeard clans – meant an enemy with money, ruthlessness, and cunning.  The fact that it was done at the doorstep of the Greenwood meant the enemy was willing to thumb its nose at King Thranduil.  The fact that none of Nori and Bofur’s messages had come through – nor the messages that Prince Legolas had sent, and resent, and finally come himself when his messengers had not returned…  It was not good news.  Someone was preventing travelers from making it to the Lonely Mountain, and making it look like bandits.

            “If they’ve been taken for ransom, why haven’t we received a demand?” the King asked.  No one had an answer.

            Lord Gremai stepped forward and whispered something in the King’s ear.  The King’s eyes widened, and he turned to Prince Legolas.  “Did the killers make off with Lady Katris’s dowry?”

            The Elf looked surprised.  “Your majesty, I know nothing about a dowry.  Nori and Bofur had made a funeral pyre and chanted for the dead, but if there was any treasure they did not make it known to me.”  Even if Bifur hadn’t been able to sense that Legolas was telling the truth, he would have been convinced by the conviction in the Elf’s voice.

            “Firebeard is going to scream conspiracy,” Balin muttered.  “The chief’s daughter and a queen’s dowry gone?  The kidnappers may prove easier to deal with than the Firebeard clan.”

            “If we can find them,” Gremai reminded him.

            A glum silence settled over them as they contemplated how the world had changed in just a few short weeks.


	9. Chapter 9

Legolas did not stay, pleading the need to eradicate the bandits he had not managed to kill in the skirmish.  Dain sent a company of Dwarven fighters with him, and clearly wished he could lead them himself.

Though Bifur longed to question the Elf further, his duties did not permit it, and he would not have been able to make himself understood even if they had.  He could not make his tongue form around the words of Common; even understanding it took concentration and effort.  Common had died with his first death.  Only the flowery ancient Khuzdul, the language of the Dwarven Fathers and Mothers and of the ancient texts his own parents had read to him in the cradle, remained – that and the miner’s sign iglishmêk.  If Dwalin had been here, he could have translated… but if Dwalin had been here, Bifur would not have needed to speak with Legolas.

The King _(Mood: cranky and worried)_ sent away his courtiers, even Dori, and retreated into his sitting room.  A compromise: the bodymen had line of sight to every part of the room but did not have to enter, and the King could sit facing away so that he didn’t have to see them and remember that he had no freedom to be alone.

In his rare moments of free time, the King would retreat to this room and work on a project that he’d been at for years.  On the table was coil upon coil of mithril wire in differing thicknesses, and Dain was fashioning a chainmail tunic out of it.  The work was precise, tiny, and took enormous concentration.  Bifur rarely saw the King relax, but this work calmed him in a way that nothing else did.  In the years since he’d started, Dain had finished only perhaps a third of the tunic, but it was the finest work Bifur had ever seen.

Today, not even the work on the tunic could distract the King from his thoughts, and he sighed loudly as he gave it up and pushed it away.  Usually at moments such as this, he would call for Dori and have a pleasant distraction; Bifur found his mind instinctually preparing to withdraw even though he knew Dain and Dori were no longer able to indulge in such things.

A knock shook Bifur out of his reverie, and he found Dori _(Mood: calmer but melancholy)_ standing outside as if summoned by the King’s boredom.  Bifur saw the glance exchanged between Dori and Dain: a look of longing, of grief, and of resignation.  It made Bifur’s heart hurt for both of them.

“The Lady Sogere approaches the castle,” Dori said quietly.  “Will you ride out to greet her?”

“Send Balin,” Dain said, his face a thundercloud.

“She’ll be cross with you.”

“I didn’t ride out for Prince Legolas,” Dain snapped.  “She’s no longer the Redbeard regent, even.  If I start out by honoring her unduly, she’ll ask half the Mountain of me.”

“If she feels insulted, she’ll be… unpleasant with you.  Why not start out on the right foot?”

Dain snorted.  “She’ll be unpleasant with me no matter what I do.  Leave it, Dori.  She’s my family and I know how to handle her.”

“But – ”

The King whirled and glared at Dori.  “Leave _off_ , I said!” he commanded, using his battlefield voice.  “It’s no longer your place to argue with my decisions!’

Bifur saw the fire that came into Dori’s eyes – and a moment later, saw the despair that chased it out.  For the first time ever, he saw Dori back down from the King’s anger rather than match it will for will.

It was deeply unsettling.  For the King as well, he could sense, for Dain froze and gaped as Dori, on the edge of tears, bowed unhappily and turned tail, taking the message to Balin.

 

* * *

 

It was largely the same party that gathered to receive Lady Sogere as had been gathered for Prince Legolas in the King’s private chambers.  The difference was that Lady Sogere was not received first in the formal audience chamber.  This might have been a calculated insult on Dain’s part, or just him avoiding another run-in with Dori.  Bifur could sense Sogere’s fury even before the door opened.

Lady Sogere, a tall, elegant dwarrowdam with silvering hair and an impressive beard for a woman, marched in with the air of owning the place.  Her mere presence overwhelmed the senses.  Caught in the raw burst of her determination and anger, not to mention her classical beauty, Bifur struggled to stay focused and present.  He forced himself to breath slowly, and decided it was best not to look directly at her _(Relationship: chief’s family, Mood: furious, Balin-Dwalin-Nori trust: 2/10, Bifur trust: 4/10 but need more input)._

Instead his eyes slid to the figure a step or two behind, clad in a sweeping wine-red dress heavily embroidered with dwarven architectural patterns from the Second Age.  Her hair was dark, piled atop her head with shining tresses tumbling down.

_(Danger!)_

Bifur felt all the air _whoosh_ out of his lungs as the information bombarded his senses.  If Lady Sogere were overwhelming, this young woman was… something else.  Something more. 

There was a dull roaring in his ears, and he felt his pulse shoot up.  Every sense he had was dialed up to a breaking point.  His skin was too small; he was afraid he would burst out of it.  His face flushed.  His male parts stood to attention.  He couldn’t breathe.

_(Danger!  Too much!  Danger!)_

Bifur closed his eyes.  He’d have to trust that Tevren could guard the King from danger for the moment.  Even with his eyes closed, the lady’s presence still buffeted his mind.  He could _smell_ her.  How was that possible?  And her emotions…

He frowned, making himself concentrate.

He couldn’t pick up her emotions.

He’d never come across anything like it.  It was like looking in a mirror; what he was picking up was his own chaotic emotions reflected back at him, amplified.

He chanced opening his eyes again.  The lady was looking at him curiously.  He could pick up a faint trace of her curiosity, so she could not be purely a reflective surface.  There was an edge of anxiety beneath her serene appearance as well.

Bifur’s eyes flicked to Lady Sogere, and was surprised to note that she too had that same mirroring quality, albeit less.  Lady Sogere’s emotions he could more readily read than the younger woman’s, but it was no wonder he was being buffeted, with two mirrors amplifying all of his response to the younger lady’s presence.  He had only ever felt something like it when Nori was being evasive about his spycraft; he would go opaque around the edges. 

Who was the young woman in red?

He had calmed somewhat by looking away.  He felt his breath quicken as he examined her out of the corner of his eye.  She and Sogere were greeting the King.  Bifur’s chest tightened almost painfully.  The pounding in his ears increased.

_(Danger!  DANGER!!)_

He forced his gaze away; that way, madness lay.  With the last of his reserves of will, he signaled to Tevren that he was compromised.  Tevren looked worried, but signaled back that he’d take point.  Bifur was free to do what he’d needed to do ever since the lady in red had walked into the room.  He instructed his breath into a steady rhythm, made his eyes go unseeing, and went inside.

Inside, his heart was gradually slowing to a more reasonable pace.  In his mind’s eye, his soul was a steadily glowing forge at the center of his heart.  Bifur gathered all of his concentration, and launched himself towards that forge.

The soul-forge was the only place Bifur was able to find true peace.  Here, time worked differently.  His thoughts didn’t come in loops and snarls.  His chaotic emotions dropped away, and he was suffused with the warmth of Mahal’s Forge, the fire that burned and did not consume.

He couldn’t stay long, not while his outer body was guarding the King.  The warmth of the Maker’s Forge was restorative enough that he’d likely get through the next few hours.

When he returned, he found he could look at the young lady.  Though it still made him quake inside, he was grounded enough that he could withstand it.

_(Plan of action: get to the end of shift, then go to the baths and then the Maker’s shrine to recover)_

He had missed the introductions, but the lady in red appeared to defer to Lady Sogere, standing a step behind her and not speaking.  Of course, that could just mean that she was letting the dowager chieftainess of clan Redbeard greet her (slightly estranged) brother.  If by “greeting” one meant “haranguing.”  The woman in red was young enough to be Sogere’s daughter…

Of course.  This must be Lady Tiris, Sogere’s daughter, sister to the new clan chief Thir, who had been elevated to that position a decade back upon attaining his majority.  His sister Tiris was slightly younger, probably just past eighty.  Bifur grimaced.  He was too old to be lusting after women that young, no matter how beautiful _(Relationship: chief’s family, Mood: ?, Bofur-Dwalin trust: ?, Bifur trust: yet to be determined)_.

Tevren caught his eye then, signaling in iglishmêk, <All good?>

Bifur signaled back that he was no longer compromised.  He was grateful it was Tevren _(Mood: worried)_ he was sharing duty with.  Jakon and Horlen were less welcoming of his limitations – Jakon especially.  Though it wasn’t often that Bifur had to take time to settle jangled nerves.  Twice only in the twelve years he’d served, and both times shortly after Bifur had saved the King from an assassin.  Dain, in his gratitude, was more understanding than his bodyguards.

Bifur decided it was best to avoid looking at Lady Tiris.  He could not be thrown off again.  Instead, he considered Lady Sogere.

The dowager chieftainess was clad in silver and green.  She wore mithril on her fingers, woven in her silvering hair, and in elegant beard ornaments.  She was clearly angry with her brother and she was, Bifur realized, the only person other than Dori who had been _allowed_ to be openly angry at the King in the past fifteen years.

He didn’t think she’d try to kill the King – not in front of witnesses, no matter what Nori and Dwalin suspected of her – but it behooved him to be on guard against any threat.  It was possible that Jakon and Horlen had been too cowed to ask the ladies for weapons.

Sogere seemed oblivious to their audience.  And she had no problem shouting at the King in front of others.  It was almost refreshing, after the oppressive atmosphere of the past year here at the Mountain, except that Bifur had to brace himself against the waves of anger rolling from her.

“Do you have any idea how disastrous this is, brother?  The Firebeards will be up in arms!  Their treasure stolen, the Lady Katris taken, probably ruined!  We’ll be lucky to avert a war!”

“Oh, surely not, my lady,” Balin protested, then shut his mouth hurriedly when Sogere turned to vent her wrath upon him instead.

“Oh no?  And why not, pray?  They will assume that the Lonely Mountain planned the abduction.  After all, everyone knows that the King would rather do anything than marry!”

Dain’s face had been stony to that point, but his eyes blazed with fury at this.  “Are you suggesting that I had anything to do with this outrage?” he thundered.

“Of course I’m not, but the Firebeards have every reason to think so!” she hollered back.  “Do you know how hard I worked – _we_ worked,” glancing at Balin and Feron, “to arrange this marriage?”

Dain guffawed, his eyes narrowed to sardonic slits.  “There is only one Dwarven King left in Middle Earth, sister, and I am he.  All you had to do was pick the richest chit of marriageable age.”

Another wave of fury rolled off of Sogere.  “And you think you were such a desirable choice for the clan chiefs’ beloved daughters?  An aged warrior who did nothing to recapture the Lonely Mountain when Thorin called, who waited until the dragon was gone and victory was assured?  Whose most lasting triumph was at Azanulbizar more than a century back, where on his counsel the dwarves snatched defeat from the jaws of victory?”

A shocked silence rang in the chamber.  Dain was on his feet _(Mood: murderous)_ , but Sogere was not backing down _(Mood: defiant)_.  Bifur placed himself between the King and the King’s sister, feeling the rage from both of them.  Curiously, though, Sogere’s anger, though it looked like it, was _not_ out of control.  He wondered whether he’d be called upon to protect the lady from her own brother.

Sogere’s eyes flashed in a curious kind of triumph, as she hissed, “An unpleasant old man who is already pair-bonded with a wh—”

If she had finished the word, Bifur was pretty sure that Dain would have killed her.  Bifur had readied himself to prevent that, knowing that it would mean the end of his career to lay hands on the King, but it would be the end of Dain if he succeeded.

Instead, help came from an unlikely source, a feeling like cool water flowing into a firefight.  Lady Tiris touched Sogere arm, halting that Lady’s diatribe.  “Mother,” Tiris said.

Lady Sogere turned appraising eyes on her daughter, but the danger was past.  She let out a deep breath and appeared to come to herself.  Which was interesting, Bifur thought, because while her anger had been genuine, it had not once slipped out of what he sensed was her iron-willed control.

That fight had been an act, at least on Lady Sogere’s part.  To what end?

On Dain’s side, however, the King was still reeling from the mortal insults hurled at him.  He was struggling to get his temper in hand, his eyes wild and his breath coming heavy.  Bifur’s eyes looked instinctively for Dori, who should have been next to the King, helping him to calm.  But Dori, for once, was not there.  The courtesan stood in his assigned place, a look of shocked horror on his face, looking as if he were rooted to the ground.  When he noticed Bifur’s eyes on him, Dori’s eyes flickered to the King, clearly tempted.  But instead, he wrenched his gaze away, hesitated, then fled for the second time that day.

Into the lion’s den came again that feeling of cool, refreshing water.  Lady Tiris approached her uncle.  “Sire,” she said, “please excuse my mother.  Her anger comes from concern for you.  The marriage negotiations were indeed more challenging than any of us expected…”  Seeing in his face that this was not the right tack, she backtracked, “But her anger comes from fear for you.  The throne needs an heir, sire, and Lady Katris represented that.  If she is dead, other clans will think twice before sending their daughters.”  She took his hand, and Bifur could feel the King calming, unmanned by this pretty young woman’s manner.  “A hasty temper has always run in our family.  Let’s wait to speak on this until we’re all calmer and can speak in private.”

It was prettily done.  If not for her mirror-like stillness, Bifur would have believed she was in earnest.  Part of him did, even yet.  After all, just because he couldn’t feel her motives did not mean that they were not pure.

Dain was wrestling with the public insult.  No one else could have gotten away with saying what Sogere had said in front of others.  Why had she dared to say it?

“When my sister returns to her senses and has a civil tongue in her head, I will see her in my private quarters,” he snarled at last.  “Both of you, be gone from my sight!  It is only because she is family that I have not had her ejected from my Kingdom.”

Bifur expected this to set Sogere off again, but to his surprise there was a small smile on her face.  The emotion coming from her was… completely calm.  He frowned.  It was eerie.  How could she have regained her composure so swiftly?  _(Bifur trust: 0/10)_

He was relieved when the gathering broke up, his shift ended, and he was able to escape first to the baths and then to the Maker’s temple to soothe his shattered nerves.


	10. Chapter 10

            Nori woke in the middle of the night.  The Elf was keeping watch.  She didn’t need sleep: an unfair advantage but one Nori was grateful for.  It meant he and Bofur would be better rested.  She had been frustrated to realize that they couldn’t track through the night with her.  Bofur, just as frustrated, would have pressed on without sleep, but Nori insisted.  A dwarf could go a long way on stamina, but there would no doubt be a battle at the end of the road.  Three against whatever small army had taken out twenty trained warriors: they needed to be sharp.

            Apparent Bofur didn’t think so, though, for he was seated on the other side of the fire next to the Elf, speaking softly with her.

            Leave it to Bofur to try and befriend the taciturn captain of the Elvish guard…

            If they had meant to have privacy, they had reckoned without Nori’s keen hearing.  A thief had to be alert to the most subtle sound.

            Bofur was speaking.  “Yes, Dwalin is my husband.  We married four years ago.”

            “He is Dwalin son of Fundin?  The warrior of the Longbeard clan?”

            “Of the Broadbeam clan, now.  He did the Broadbeams much honor by joining our clan.”

            “His name is known even among my people for his prowess in battle.”

            Nori could imagine Bofur’s face lighting up, as it often did when he talked about his husband.  Sickening, the both of them, how in love they were…

            Nori let this train of thought fade with a grimace.  It was likely that Dwalin was dead.

            “He does not go out on campaign anymore?” the Elf asked.

            “No.  He is bodyguard to King Dain – which is an honor, of course – and he heads up the City Watch these past few years.  I think he thinks of it as… retirement.”  Bofur looked up at Tauriel.  “Do Elves have retirement?  Dwarves don’t, usually; it’s a thing I first heard about from the Men in Dale.”

            What Bofur wasn’t saying was that Dwalin had given up campaigning when he’d fallen in love with Bofur.  Soppy sods.

            “We do not,” Tauriel said.  “Though some of my people travel West when they grow tired of this life.”

            “Will you?” Bofur asked, then seemed to realize that it might be an impolite question and grimaced.

            She smiled.  “I doubt it.  I will likely die in the course of my duties, one of these centuries.  We Silvan Elves are not like our relations.  Few of us go into the West.”

            The two fell silent for a time, then Tauriel asked, “What becomes of a Dwarf after death?”

            “We are returned to the Halls of Mandos.  We go to a section set apart for just the Dwarves, where we meet Mahal – you would call him Aulë – and all of our ancestors.  That’s why the honor of a Dwarf is so important, you see: we have to answer to all those who went before.”

            “After the Battle of the Five Armies…  I remember there were chants?”

            Bofur was silent for a moment.  “Chants to ensure safe passage to the Halls of Mandos.”

            “But the bodies were burned!” she said.  “How can they go to the halls of Mandos without their forms?”

            Nori puzzled at this, but Bofur chuckled.  “Dwarves and Men are not like Elves, my lady.  Our souls are not bound to our bodies as yours are.  We are not reborn as you are, save the Seven Fathers who can return to Middle Earth.  We are mortal.”

            “And so you are willing to burn your dead.”

            Bofur winced.  “Only in times of dire need.  Great battles, most especially.  We do not like to burn our dead.  In the ordinary course of things, our bodily forms return to the stone.”

            “To the stone?”

            “The first dwarves were shaped from the living rock by Mahal himself,” Bofur explained.  "Upon death, we revert to that primal state.  It takes some time.  But in our cemetery caverns, you can find many who died and returned to stone.”  Bofur paused.  “Sometimes people keep their loved ones in their houses, as statues, but that tends to make people a little uncomfortable.  Few do it.”

            Hah.  “Uncomfortable” was putting it mildly, Nori thought.  Usually only nobles did such things.  Who wanted disapproving relatives hanging around the place, stone or not?

            “Cemetery caverns…  Why did the dead from the Battle not go there?”

            “Too many died for the proper rites.”  The sorrow was clear in Bofur’s voice.  “Only King Thorin and the princes had a proper interment.”

            “The princes?” Tauriel repeated.

            Suddenly Nori understood why she was asking.  Tauriel had fallen in love with Kili, King Thorin’s sister-son.  A forbidden love, likely unconsummated, anathema to Elves and Dwarves alike.

            He felt something akin to pity, and it took him by surprise.  Did Elves, like Dwarves, fall in love only once?  Did Tauriel hope to reunite with Kili in the Halls of Mandos?  If so, she was in for a disappointment.

            “Fili and Kili were interred with King Thorin, beneath the heart of the Mountain,” Bofur said.  His voice was kind; he too understood why the Elf was asking.  “Their bodies have returned to the stone by now.”

            “You have seen them?” she asked.

            “Not… recently,” Bofur said, clearly puzzled.  “The tomb is not sealed, of course, but few pass there.  I have not been there since… hmm… four years hence.”

            That was news to Nori.  It was not customary to visit a tomb or cemetery; if you wanted to contact those who had gone before, you went to the Temple, not to the stone that the soul had departed from.  Why had Bofur gone there?

            “And you saw the… what do you call them?  Bodies?  Statues?”

            Bofur was frowning.  “I wasn’t there to see the princes, I’m afraid.  We – I – was there to see Thorin.”

            “I see.”  The Elf was clearly disappointed.

            Nori watched Bofur chew at his lip.  He had to wonder why Bofur – and Dwalin, it had to be Dwalin with him – had gone to see Thorin in his tomb.

            “My lady,” Bofur said after a long pause, “Kili and Fili are in the Halls of Mandos with King Thorin, their father, and their ancestors.  What is left is no more them than a painting would be.”

            Tauriel was quiet for a long time, so long that Nori thought the conversation ended.  But then she spoke, her voice low.  “I… grieved, for all those mortals slain in the Battle of Five Armies.  I am not used to mortals, or mortal grief.  With Elves, I know that my comrades will be reborn and that we will meet again one day.  With Dwarves and Men, the loss is… forever.”

            “Aye,” Bofur agreed softly.

            “Perhaps that is why our peoples are so different.”

            “Perhaps so.”

            She stared into the fire, and Nori had the sense that she was wrestling within herself.  He wanted to shout at her to get on with it, but this was Bofur’s strength: he could put someone at ease until they told him everything.  An invaluable skill, if only he’d turn it to spycraft…  But Bofur wouldn’t.  He passed on gossip, yes, but he refused to get involved in political machinations unless his hand was forced.

            Finally the Elf spoke again.  “I have heard… rumors.  Perhaps you know to what I refer?”

            Nori went tense.  What kind of rumors could have reached the Greenwood that Nori himself was not aware of?

            “I grieve that I do not, my lady,” Bofur said.  “I am but a miner, and I try to keep out of the way of politics and intrigue.”

            Even in the dim light, Nori could see the disappointment on Tauriel’s face.  “You have not heard rumors of the True Heirs of Erebor?”

            Nori gasped involuntarily.  He cursed silently when the Elf’s head whipped around his direction.  Mahal take it!  If she knew something of the True Heirs of Erebor, he had just missed his chance.  It was no use pretending, though; she had heard him.  He sat up, his eyes meeting hers.

            Bofur came to the rescue.  “Please forgive my friend, my lady,” he said wryly.  “He forgets his manners now that his job is to listen at keyholes for King Dain.”

            “Indeed,” she said, going abruptly more aloof, distant, and, well, Elf-like.

            “But if any Dwarf knows something of these True Heirs,” Bofur said, “Nori will.”

            Nori glared at him.  Bofur was unmoved.

            Nori considered.  He had been chasing rumors of the True Heirs of Erebor for more than a decade now.  They were as fleeting as smoke.  He’d not heard anything for more than a year, and had been grateful for it as it meant no more chasing cold leads.  Still, if the Elf had new information, he needed to wheedle it out of her.

            But he didn’t like his hand being forced, not by a friend.  He stood up with bad grace and stalked over to the pair.

            “Captain,” he greeted Tauriel, because he wanted none of this flattering “my lady” malarkey.  Bofur had always been enchanted by Elves, but Nori was a Longbeard and descended of Durin the Deathless.  He would not be so easily taken in.

            “Spymaster,” she returned, her voice cool.

            An awkward silence descended as they each waited for the other to begin.

            When he realized that the Elf was perfectly content to let the silence go on forever – not easily intimidated, that one – Nori sighed.

            It was easiest to start with the truth.  “I was in attendance when the King and the Princes were interred under the Mountain, Captain,” he said.  “There is no doubt that they are dead.  Oin, who was also of Thorin’s company and cousin to the boys, is a physician.  You must have met him, for you were with Kili at the end.”

            Something flickered in her eyes.  “Yes, I remember Oin.  A good healer.  I tried… I tried to save Kili a second time…”

            Bofur laid a hand on her arm.  “He was already gone,” he said.  “Oin knew it, and you did too.”

            She did not weep, but her face held her grief immobilized.

            Nori hated such emotion.  It made him feel like a cad for trying to manipulate information out of people in a vulnerable state.  It was his least favorite part of his job.  But he needed to know.  “I’ve heard whispers about the so-called True Heirs of Erebor, and many of them are about the Princes,” he said bluntly.  “I saw them dead and I saw them buried, so I must assume that these rumors are put about for some political purpose.”

            It was a suckerpunch to the hope she had been carrying, and he could see it.

            “Captain, trust me,” he said, gentling his voice.  “I loved Fili and Kili as brothers and comrades in arms.  If there were any doubt in my mind, I would be moving the stars and the earth to find them.  But they are in Mandos’s Halls, and their bodies returned to the stone in the funeral cavern of the Dwarven Kings Under the Mountain.”

            It took her a moment to be able to speak, and her voice trembled just a little as she did.  “Are you certain?” she asked.  “Every rumor I hear starts with their bodies missing from the tomb.”

            Nori had heard that one, too.  Dismissed it out of hand.  There was no way the Princes could go missing from the tomb with no one noticing.

            …Could they?

            Bofur’s voice cut in, coming to the same realization.  “Has anyone been there recently?” he asked.  “There are guards outside, but that’s really so no one makes off with the Arkenstone.  Dwalin and I were likely the first ones there in years, judging by the dust.  I’m certain we’d have noticed if their bodies were missing… but we were there for Thorin…”  He looked suddenly uncertain.

            “We will make certain, when we return to the Lonely Mountain,” Nori said.  “But even if they were not, we all saw the princes dead, Captain.  Perhaps Elves can be returned to life, but Dwarves cannot.”

            She nodded, her face impassive now.

            “What rumors have reached the Greenwood?” Nori asked.  “I’ve heard many such, but they become garbled under the Mountain, whispered in corners so the King will not hear.”  The King would consider them what they were: sedition, and an attempt to destabilize his throne.

            “The story that came to me was that the Heirs were nigh unto death, and Dain Ironfoot saw his opportunity.  He spirited them away, and they are imprisoned in the deepest dungeons of the Lonely Mountain.  That Aulë – ” she grimace, “ – Mahal – is angered by this, and has turned his back on the false King Under the Mountain.  That no one saw the Princes put in the tomb, and that the tomb is well-guarded against any who would investigate.”

            Bofur burst out, “But we were there!  Thorin’s Company, we laid their bodies in the cavern!  They were our friends, our brothers!”

            “The story is that you were well-paid for looking the other way,” the Elf said.

            Bofur growled, tensing.

            “Peace, friend Dwarf,” Tauriel told him, holding up her hands placatingly.  “I did not say I believed that part, only that it is the story that came to me.  I know you prize honor above all things, except perhaps – ”  She stopped.

            Bofur was on his feet.  Nori was too, though it took him a moment longer to realize what she had almost said.

            Bofur’s mattock appeared in his hands.  “Except _gold_ , is that right, my lady?” he spat.  “You think we would sell out our _kin_ for _gold?”_ He stood clearly ready to do battle.

            Offended honor and practicality warred in Nori’s mind.  Dwarf he was, yes, and it was galling to be accused of such a thing.  But he had also spent long years of his life as a thief and a low-life, and he did not hold honor so close as others.  Bofur, on the other hand… Bofur had gone through years when honor was _all_ he had left.

            Still, he could not let Bofur challenge their guide.  Bofur needed Dwalin more than he needed to defend his honor.

            He placed a hand on Bofur’s rigid shoulder.  “She’s an Elf,” he said simply.  “How could she know?  We need her if we’re to find Dwalin.”

            For a moment, he wasn’t sure it would work.  But to his relief, Bofur put down the mattock.  He stalked to the other side of the fire, muttering, “How could we be tempted by _gold_ when each of us has right to a fourteenth part of the Treasury of the _whole Lonely Mountain?”_

Tauriel’s green eyes followed him and her head tilted to the side as if she were reassessing him.  Bofur stalked over to his bedroll, as far away as he could get, and threw himself down on it, still muttering.

            Nori tried not to fidget in the awkward silence that descended.

            It took perhaps a quarter of an hour – and Bofur was _still_ muttering his disgust on the other side of the fire – before Tauriel spoke again.  “…I have heard all my life about the… acquisitiveness… of Dwarves,” she said, and if Nori didn’t know better he would have said there was an apology in her voice.

            “Aye, well, I’ve heard all my life about Elves with their noses so far in the air they can’t dress themselves…” they heard Bofur mutter, and it startled a laugh out of Tauriel.

            She looked at Nori, a glimmer of a smile in her eyes.  “Bofur and his husband, they are the ones the Lord Elrond has named Elf-Friend?”

            This was news to Nori.  Across the circle, Bofur’s muttering ceased.

            “I can only imagine that the Lord Elrond must have considerably more of a sense of humor than my lord Thranduil.”  Her lips twitched.

            “Elrond?  That mad bastard?  The Elf’s cracked, that’s what he is,” Bofur said, as if to the trees.  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

            Tauriel raised an eyebrow, smirking.  “He is wise, I am told.  He would not be taken in by kinslayers.  And, as you say, you and your companions own most of the treasure of the Mountain.  I begin to think my people do you dwarves wrong.”

            It was probably as much of an apology as they were likely to get, so Nori decided it would be prudent to drown out Bofur’s aspersions on the honor of King Thranduil from the other side of the fire.  “Captain, where have you heard these rumors?" he asked, trying to keep the urgency he felt from his voice.  "From whom?  Under the Mountain, they are as cobwebs: when you grasp them, they break and there is no tracing them.”

            The green eyes turned to fix upon Nori with an unnerving penetration.  Nori could see the moment when she decided to reply.  “I heard it first from a Dwarf traveling from the Mountain, bound toward the west.  He was telling other Dwarves in his traveling party.  I thought the story must be common knowledge.”

            “Not in Erebor,” Nori said.  “You said you heard it ‘first’ from a Dwarf?”

            “The Dale rivermen are great gossips.  I wouldn’t have heeded the story from them if I hadn’t heard it before.  There is much envy of the Dwarves among the Men, you know.”

            Yes, how well Nori knew it.  It clouded the relations between the Mountain and Dale.  At least Dain and King Bard got on well.

            “And you have heard it but the two times?”

            She frowned.  “Nay, spymaster.  I have heard it whispered among many traveling Dwarves over the years, going to and from the Lonely Mountain.”

            Well, _fuck._


End file.
